He shifts his weight, his discomfort crackling. His eyes flick anywhere but me.
Probably because the last time he saw me, I was giving him a lap dance.
“Sophia,” he says, speaking directly to her with the laser focus of a man avoiding averyspecific problem, “just wanted to say goodbye before heading back to London.”
“Come in.” Sophia waves him forward like we’re at a goddamn tea party. “Look at the ladies. Do you think Giles will approve of the dresses?”
Her smile is so genuinely eager that it temporarily quells my earlier homicidal urges toward her.
“Yes, of course he will,” Edward says, his gaze flickering toward me for approximately half a second before yanking itself away like it touched something scalding.
“Doesn’t the color really suit Imogen?” Sophia asks.
Imogen blushes.
“Indeed,” he says tersely.
Sophia claps her hands together. “Twirl, girls. Show Edward the detail on the back.”
And because we are, apparently, nothing more than life-sized Victorian dolls, we twirl. Satin and lace swish dramatically through the air.
Edward dutifully watches us spin, his posture growing more rigid by the second.
“Beautiful,” he repeats mechanically, like he’s forgotten every other adjective in his considerable vocabulary.
“Hmm,” the fitter hums, stepping toward me, tilting her head. “I think I’ll take another inch off Tracey’s.”
A ripple of confusion moves through the room.
“You mean me?” I ask. “I’m Daisy, not Tracey.”
The fitter’s face flushes. “Oh! So sorry. Excuse me, I must have misheard.”
“Not a problem,” I say easily.
“Daisy’s such a cute name.” Bernice smiles. “My name sounds like it belongs to an eighty-year-old woman. Why are you called Daisy?”
I smirk. “Guess my mum thought it would help me grow up sweet and innocent. That worked out well, didn’t it? Though what’s in a name, anyway?”
The girls laugh, becauseyes, clearly, that plan went straight to hell.
“Quite a lot, actually,” Edward says curtly. “I have to disagree with Shakespeare on that one. Names create expectations—rightly or wrongly. I doubt anyone’s rushing to name their child Judas or, for that matter, Adolf.”
Leave it to Edward to drop a Hitler reference into a lighthearted chat.
“I suppose so,” I muse, tilting my head, meeting his stare with a crooked smile. “No one’s shagging the Dereks of the worldanymore, are they? But Christians and Tristans? They’re doing just fine.”
“Daisy!” Sophia gasps, half scandalized, half laughing. “You have a one-track mind.”
I shrug, unapologetic. If the track’s sturdy, no point changing.
“And the Fabios,” Bernice chimes in, giggling.
I snort. “No chance. Fabio disappeared with his hair. The older ladies might still be holding out for a Fabio, but let’s be real—he’s a dying breed.”
Edward coughs. “I see this conversation has no further use for me,” he mutters, probably mentally filing it underInappropriate Things Daisy Has Said in Public, Vol. 3.
He strides over to Sophia, leans down, and presses a formal kiss on her forehead. “Goodbye,” he says, already halfway out the door.
